


The Color Red

by ladylangst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, This Is Sad, just a heads up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 21:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylangst/pseuds/ladylangst
Summary: His memories of the past months flash through his mind. He remembers every feeling that his friend inspired in him and raises his hand. He needs to feel alive again. He needs Sherlock. He breathes out and tightens his grip.How ironic the world can be.





	The Color Red

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Now that Voltron is over, I’ve been looking for a new fandom. All of my friends have seen Sherlock, so that’s what I’m watching. I already knew what happens at the end of season two, but I was not emotionally prepared. So here *shoves angst towards readers* I hope you like it!

_“He’s my friend”_

The world spins and all John can do is stare at the broken figure of his friend. His best friend. It can’t be him- it can’t. John looks up and the world blurs. He looks down and Sherlock sharpens into clarity. Grey, everything is grey and then there’s red.

This can’t be happening. No. No. He’s gone. Sherlock is gone. No no no no. He- he has to- he can’t be dead. He- he is. That’s him. Right there.

John lifts a trembling hand and reaches out to brush his fingers against his friend’s cheek. When someone forces him away his hand is red. He rubs his fingers together and feels his heart stutter. It’s warm, but everything else is cold.

He’s pulled about many times after that, but he isn’t paying attention anymore. All he can see is Sherlock. Words are thrown at him. Whispers, shouts, sobs. He doesn’t hear anything.

At one point he looks up to see Lestrade. The man has never looked so worn. John would offer comfort if he didn’t think the man deserved it. He looks down and the world fades.

His mind is back on Sherlock.

Sherlock when John first met him, focused on his work in the lab, asking to borrow a phone. Sherlock jumping about the flat in excitement because of a serial killer. Sherlock composing with his violin. Sherlock tearing the bomb off of John with trembling hands and a frantic look in his eyes.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

Gone.

John lifts his head and looks around him again. He’s in his flat now, in his chair. The one across from him is empty. It’s always going to be empty. The room is dark, there’s only a small bit of light coming through the window. It’s evening now. He’s sure it wasn’t a moment ago.

He blinks slowly and stands. He makes his way into the kitchen, but it’s harder than usual. His limp is back. Of course it is. The only reason it was gone is dead. John feels hollow.

He stops to lean against the counter and looks around himself. The kitchen is a mess. One of Sherlock’s experiments is still strewn about the countertops. It’s going to stay there. Cleaning it up would be like erasing another part of his friend.

John hobbles over to the cupboard and takes down a mug. The stovetop is mostly clear, so he just leaves it as is and begins to boil some water. In what feels like seconds it’s bubbling. He pours it over his tea leaves and raises the mug to his lips. It sears his throat. He still feels cold.

He sets down his tea and looks towards the stairs. He never thought he’d feel like this again. This cold and alone. It’s nothing new, John felt like this every day after his return from Afghanistan. He just forgot about it. Sherlock _helped_ him forget. He _made_ John feel alive again. It’s such a shame that he couldn’t do the same for Sherlock.

He walks towards the stairs and struggles up to his room. The darkness around him presses down on his mind, lulling it to sleep. The world continues to blur, but this time he has no one to focus it.

His room is dark as well. He turns on a lamp and settles himself on the edge of his bed. He looks around, everything is still. It’s quiet without Sherlock. John knows that it will always be quiet without Sherlock.

He pulls out his mobile phone and goes to his contacts. He scrolls to the last number entered and calls it. The phone rings for two minutes before reaching voicemail. He almost chokes up at the message he hears, but stops himself.

“Hello- ah, hello. Yes. Well, it’s been a while since I felt the need to- I haven’t felt- I-. It doesn’t matter. Never mind that. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll never let anyone convince me that you lied to me. Never. You’re my best friend Sherlock, and no one will ever change that. You are, were, a hero. To me, that is. Can you just- can you promise me one thing? Will you wait for me?” John feels tears falling down his cheeks and he takes a shaky breath before hanging up the phone.

He looks about his room one more time before reaching out to pull open his nightstand. The object inside is cold and heavy, but it fits in John’s hand like and old friend.

His memories of the past months flash through his mind. He remembers every feeling that his friend inspired in him and raises his hand. He needs to feel alive again. He needs Sherlock. He breathes out and tightens his grip.

The empty apartment doesn’t hear a thing.

Mrs Hudson does. Lestrade finds out soon after. The last to know is Sherlock.

How ironic the world can be.

 


End file.
